


Filthy Springtime

by januarywren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Hermione Granger, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Romance, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Consensual Underage Sex, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Eater Revels, Death Eaters, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Bonding, Forced Orgasm, Forced Prostitution, Forced Relationship, Grooming, HP Kinkfest 2020, Heavy Angst, Hermione Granger-centric, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Manipulative Relationship, Master/Pet, Mental Health Issues, Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, Misguided Albus Dumbledore, Multi, No Golden Trio, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Hogwarts, Power Dynamics, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Coercion, Size Kink, Smut, Submissive Hermione Granger, Suicide Attempt, Tragic Romance, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarywren/pseuds/januarywren
Summary: Rowle had been endlessly amused, and enticed, by the charming bookworm after she had been assigned as his Secret Santa when she was a third-year and he a fourth.(It was one of Dumbledore's golden ideas, to bridge the gap between the Houses, and the various years.) He had received a tangled mess of yarn, one he learned was supposed to be mittens for when he practiced Quidditch outside. "I thought you looked cold,” she’d told him, her cheeks a pretty shade of pink. “They’ll protect your hands from getting frostbitten and -““Wouldn’t I use a warming charm then, kitten?” he’d teased, and he’d caught her arm when she went to run away. He knew the little lioness was unpopular amidst her peers, forever waving her hand in the air, and was the unrequited crush of a certain Malfoy. Her only friends were a lunatic Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor with mad parents.He’d made his choice then and snogged her.HPKink Fest 2020 | A childhood entanglement turns into something more than Rowle or his kitten could ever dream of.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Thorfinn Rowle, Thorfinn Rowle & Hermione Granger
Comments: 39
Kudos: 313
Collections: HP Kinkfest 2020





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Slaps hands down on the desk* PHEW, I was worried about finishing this one on time - with all my health flare-ups, I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to go through with participating in the kink fest! There are such amazing prompts and entries, that I'm happy I was able to finish this after all. 
> 
> The prompt I selected focused on two kinks: grooming and forced prostitution. 
> 
> I'm not sure if Rowle is too soft for the full kink, as I made both Rowle and Hermione 'victims of circumstance' (as Simon put it!). The full prompt was: "Hermione is groomed whilst at Hogwarts by an older boy. She thinks it’s so very romantic. He’s playing the long game. Over a number of years, she unwittingly becomes part of the seedy wizarding underworld. By the time she graduates and afterward she is in too deep. But this life is now ingrained in her and even if Law Enforcement comes knocking or accuse her of soliciting, she would never betray her man."
> 
> I hope that whoever prompted it enjoys my fic (I'm sorry if it isn't entirely what you had in mind! I really tried my best with it. 🙊❤ ) and that anyone reading this does too! I enjoyed the pairing and exploring the 'what-if' of Riddle's ideals. I wanted there to be a softness to the angst too, something that gave it a softer underbelly. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, I'm grateful for every single person who reads my work! 🖤

Rowle's teeth bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough for him to taste blood, as it bubbled to the surface. 

“Who did this?” Rowle asked, pressing the cloth to her cheek.

He felt the burn of his magic as it simmered in his veins, as it reacted to his fury. This wasn’t the life that he had promised his kitten, it wasn’t the life at all.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione mumbled, her eyes fluttering closed. Her familiar words made him want to dig his fingers into her sides and shake her until she told him the truth, as she used to. She was without guile, every emotion flickering across her face before the pills had started. Now she was like a porcelain doll, as she felt small in his arms, and a fragile air clung about her.

Sometimes Rowle feared she would break in his arms, and he would find himself holding nothing but glass shards. She was far from the girl that he had once known, the shy lioness that he had coveted, and claimed as his own. She had fascinated and enticed him, and he had thrown every rule aside for her. He loved her, his pathetic heart beating for her alone. And Hermione, she -He exhaled, blowing blonde curls from his cheek. 

She hated him; he knew.

“Granger,” he warned.

“Not Rowle?” Hermione teased, her bruised lips curling upward. “You said you’d never call me Granger again.”

He said he'd married her once when he pulled her into an alleyway at Hogwarts and snogged her until her cheeks were flushed and her eyes as wide as any skittish doe. He knew then, that he saw a life with her; one where she was shared his name and had his children. The little witch was brimming with spirit, wielding magic the same as he did. 

It wasn’t facts and figures that Hermione had recited to him, instead, panting his name and keening “ _Yes, yes - more, Rowle, p-please_ -“ into his ear.

He had been endlessly amused, and enticed, by the charming bookworm after she had been assigned as his Secret Santa when she was a third-year and he a fourth. (It was one of Dumbledore's golden ideas, to bridge the gap between the Houses, and the various years.) He had received a tangled mess of yarn, one he learned was supposed to be mittens for when he practiced Quidditch outside. " _I thought you looked cold_ ,” she’d told him, her cheeks a pretty shade of pink. “ _They’ll protect your hands from getting frostbitten and_ -“

“ _Wouldn’t I use a warming charm then, kitten_?” he’d teased, and he’d caught her arm when she went to run away. He knew the little lioness was unpopular amidst her peers, forever waving her hand in the air, and was the unrequited crush of a certain Malfoy. Her only friends were a lunatic Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor with mad parents.

He’d made his choice then and snogged her.

She’d pushed her hands against his chest when he dipped his tongue into her mouth and coaxed her to relax against him. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken a kiss from a girl, though it was the first time he’d felt warmth settle inside him, winding through his ribcage, the same as any snake. She tasted sweet and airy, the same as the sugar cookies his mother sent him from France.

_“R-Rowle_ -“ she’d startled, and he’d chuckled, cradling her cheek in his hand. “ _You can’t just d-do that_!”

“ _Consider that your present to me_ ,” Thorfinn cooed, his smirk widening as she stuttered.

“ _Y-You can’t be serious_ -“

“ _Yes, I can_ ,” he replied, unphased by her posturing. He was her first kiss, something they both knew, and he reveled in. “ _Be a good girl and come watch me play tomorrow_ ,” he’d waved the gloves she’d made him beneath her chin. “ _You might see me wear these, Hermione_.”

Her name felt right on his tongue, something he found continued to be true, in the years that followed. For she had come to his game, Thorfinn seeing her in the stands, with her nose buried in a book. He’d chuckled at the sight, and flew right past her when the game ended, ensuring she looked up and saw he was wearing her creations.

It was the first and only time something handmade had been given to him. (Though his fingers were blue with frostbite after he wore them, something he didn’t mention to _his_ kitten after).

And she was his kitten, the little lioness that hid in the library, and was ignored by her classmates, though they enjoyed the house points she earned them, Rowle had decided. It was easy enough to, as Malfoy had little chance of claiming a mudblood, and there were no Gryffindors who moved to protect her.

He began seeking her out when she was least expecting; Rowle often finding her in the back corner of the library, with a quill in her hand and ink smeared across her cheek. He brought her sugar quills to suck on, and tea too, Rowle finding that she had a love for Earl Grey, with a dash of milk and a spoonful of honey. She was shy when it came to his advances, and they had no repeat of their kiss, though he felt her watching him when they dined in the Great Hall, or when he practiced on the Quidditch field.

It wasn’t until he found her wandering the halls, with a pair of newly knitted gloves in her hand that he snogged her again. She pressed the gloves against his chest, saying that she knew the first pair could have been better -

And he had pulled her flush against him and claimed her mouth as belonging to him.

_Again_.

Their touches hadn’t stopped after that, as Rowle coaxed her into sitting in his lap while they studied in the library, and he taught her just how _interesting_ wandering into the Forbidden Forest could be. And she learned not to shy away from him in public after they'd made out between classes, and she had pulled away when other students passed. " _W-We can’t_!” his sweet rule follower had cried, and he’d lazily smiled.

“ _We can_.”

And he'd gone to reach for her again until she'd pushed him away. " _What if others see_?” she’d mumbled, her eyes darting away from him, and he’d scowled at her then.

“ _Fine_.”

He’d ignored her for two weeks after that, and the notes she sent him.

When he found her in his rooms after; her eyes red and tears running down her cheeks, he’d forgiven her. It was the first time she spent the night with him, as he slipped his hand between her legs, and brought her to sweetly cry beneath him. He hadn’t looked at another girl since finding his kitten, and Rowle delighted in how responsive she was.

“ _Oh_!” Hermione had keened, the prettiest sound Rowle had ever heard.

She was a siren, her call enchanting him, he decided. Rowle couldn’t be angry with her still, too pleased by how she came undone beneath his hand to keep apart from her. (And really, who did she have, if she wasn’t with him?)

They hadn’t been apart after that, as Rowle taught her the secret passages to take, and she slept nightly in his bed. As a Prefect, he kept his own quarters, and soon her books were cluttered on his nightstand, and she slept with her head tucked against his chest. The others took notice, as Rowle had expected. It was common enough to share girls between them, just as the girls regularly shared lovers; childhood betrothals thoroughly ignored in the halls of Hogwarts.

“ _Would you share your lioness, Rowle_?” Dolohov asked him, and Rowle hadn’t said no.

Instead, he’d said “ _Not yet, friend_.”

Every pureblood knew the world was changing, as Riddle was rising in politics. He was set to become the Minister, as Kingsley’s supporters dwindled, and the public turned against him. What had changed under Kingsley? Nothing, except for increased violence on the streets, and former supporters burned their wands in protest.

As Minister, Kingsley was too inviting of the muggle world, too trusting of change when the wizarding world still remembered the crises faced in previous years. Muggleborns were increasingly distrusted, while half-bloods and purebloods were adored, something that promised to flourish under Riddle’s reign.

And where would the little lioness be, when that happened?

She was too ignorant to seek his protection and refused to back down when Malfoy antagonized her. Rowle clicked his tongue when she confessed, she’d punched Draco in the face and broken his nose, after she’d found him bullying a house-elf. His kitten was entirely Gryffindor, her spirit burning bright and fierce. She had little idea of the target on her back, one that only increased when Draco wrote his father of what the _mudblood_ had done.

It’d taken Rowle claiming her to prevent her expulsion, after Lucius Malfoy had stormed into Dumbledore’s office, and threatened to bring the entire board down upon him. It was then that Rowle announced that the newly turned fourth year was his, as the golden bracelet on her wrist announced.

She’d thought it a mere trinket when he gave it to her, Hermione having little idea of pureblood customs. The entwined snake came from the family vaults, its emerald eyes charmed to keep watch over her. Every pureblood knew that Rowle had staked his claim on her, an announcement steeped in old magic. She was his to possess, as she had no family to represent her, and her muddied blood made her lesser than him, in the eyes of the law.

And so, his little lioness owed him for letting her stay at Hogwarts, as Rowle had promised Malfoy and Dumbledore that he would look after her. Teach her, how to behave.

He hadn’t told her the truth until she’d drunk herself silly, never thinking the punch was spiced at the winter ball, and he’d carried her back to his dorm room. She’d been a picture of lacy white and blue, and he’d lapped between her legs like a starving man. Ambrosia had bloomed across his tongue, and when his face glistened with cum, he knew that he would never let her go.

“ _You’re mine, little one_ ,” he’d purred in her ear, and whispered what he’d done.

Her bracelet bound them together, the same as any formal engagement.

When she was sober, she’d spit and snarled, furious that he hadn’t told her before. “ _This is my b-bloody life_ ,” Hermione had cried, and Rowle had wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“ _You don’t have a choice_ ,” he’d told her gently, “ _Not if you want to stay here at Hogwarts, Hermione,”_ or the wizarding world as a whole. Riddle had come into power and was turning the world into a new order, one that had no room for foolish mudbloods.

His little lioness was only safe if she stayed with him.

And she did, coming to accept his advances, even _begging_ for them. She let him do as he wished, as he whispered that she mattered, and she was the only one for him. She accepted his praise the same as if she were a puppy, and his outstretched hand was full of her favorite treats.

The fact that bracelet made her more receptive had little to do with it, as Rowle saw her eyes lit up when she saw him, and she let him charm her curls to relax enough for him to braid. He saw her as his fiancé, the one who would be his future wife; something he admitted only to himself when he was curled beneath the covers and had his hand wrapped around his cock.

She pleased him more than any other girl had, and he saw himself being happy with her. She was the ingenue that only he could revel in, and Rowle had beaten the visiting student, Viktor Krum, senseless when he observed him following Hermione. The other Slytherins knew that she was his, even Malfoy turning his attentions to his fiancé, Pug-faced Parkinson.

And it was how things should have continued, had their new Minister not fucked things up, entirely.

“You are my wife,” Rowle said.

“You know the law,” Hermione replied, meeting his gaze. She wore his bracelet still, along with his signet ring on her ring finger. His grandfather would have turned in his grave, had he known who was wearing the family crest, not that Rowle cared. He wanted his lioness to have every part of him, the same as if she were a pureblood.

He had always fucked her like one.

“Fuck the bloody law,” Rowle scowled.

It had been Minister Riddle’s pleasure to announce a series of marital laws, soon after he came into power. Rowle had been a seventh year then, while Hermione was a sixth year. “ _Unsuitable partners will be barred from their partner’s estate_ ,” Hermione had read aloud, resting her head on Rowle’s shoulder, “ _and their offspring considered bastards in the eyes of the court_.”

The rewards were ample for half-bloods and purebloods that stayed in their groups, marrying amongst each other. Childhood betrothals were encouraged, and family alliances upheld. But for muggle-borns, there was the harsh abandonment of the law, one that made them less than other partners, and their children entitled to nothing, at all.

Hermione had been aghast at it all, declaring the laws barbaric, and absurd. It was more than Rowle had expected from the new Minister, and he knew of one besotted Slytherin that was planning to take his muggle-born Hufflepuff to America, after graduation. “ _You know that I’ll take care of you, kitten_ ,” Rowle had reminded Hermione, though when she’d demanded what of the others like her -

He’d said nothing, at all.

She'd ignored him for weeks until he'd caught her on the way to the library and dragged her into a broom closet. They’d fucked as if they were animals; saying everything they couldn’t say aloud with their bodies. He still bore the scars from her nails raking down his back, while she had broken in being able to ignore him.

“ _Don’t leave me_ ,” she’d begged, “ _Please Rowle_ -“

He was her friend, and her lover, the only one she’d ever known.

It was that way still, as they married after graduation, and she’d come to live with him in his family’s summerhouse. It was near London, a small estate with a private garden, and an ample library for Hermione. Rowle found that he wanted to make her happy, as he relished the sound of her laughter and the sight of her flushed cheeks, especially when she realized flowers bloomed outside every window, no matter the season. It was forever springtime; something his mother had ensured when she lived in the manor. 

Now, Hermione was the Mistress of it, and Rowle found he enjoyed her possessing the title. He couldn't get enough of her, his kitten enchanting him more than any other had. He took her as he liked, claiming he on nearly every surface; both of them finding that she liked it best when she straddled him in a chair, or when he took her from behind. 

He wanted her to see the manor as her home and soon brought home a familiar for her to enjoy. The half-kneazle was mercilessly ugly; his squished in face and ragged fur making Rowle snort, though Hermione adored him. She cuddled him tightly and cried into his fur when she found that she was denied for work, despite her flawless N.E.W.T. scores. Everything was changing outside the manor and Rowle -

He feared it for her.

The manor became her home, and her prison too, as the Minister declared that muggle-born partners were considered lesser than before, no longer wives or husbands at all, in the eyes of the law.

They were considered the property of the pureblood/s that claimed them as if the Ministry were declaring open season on muggle-borns. They could be shared amidst the purebloods that wanted them, traded, and sold as if they were exotic pets or collectible items.

“ _Who am I_?” Hermione had demanded, her cheeks flushed, and her hands trembling. She’d gripped the parchment against her chest and stamped her foot as Rowle had stepped through the Floo. He was kept longer at the Ministry, the Minister himself noticing him. He was a part of his Knights, the ones who had replaced the ineffective Aurors that Kingsley had employed. Riddle’s knights ensured that his laws were followed, whatever that entailed. “ _Am I not a witch, the same as you’re a wizard? Am I nothing but a filthy animal?_ ”

They both knew that she was, in the eyes of the ever-looming Ministry, that she was.

“ _Not to me_ ,” Rowle had sworn to her then, without guile in his tone. “ _You’re everything to me, Hermione, your blood is the fucking same as mine_. _I’ll protect you, just trust me_ -”

And it was, Rowle had learned, when he found her in their clawfoot tub, with blood streaming from her slit wrists. It was the same crimson as his own, and tears had streamed down his cheeks as he healed her. He knew that she couldn't take the world-changing, as she was recognized as being lower than an animal.

It would have been kinder to let her die - but Rowle -

He couldn't be without her, the selfish bastard that he was. (He wanted to whisper that he was sorry, his tears soaking her skin and that he wished he could be a better man for her.) But he had never lied to her, and he wasn't going to start.

Now a house-elf stayed with Hermione when she bathed and kept the razors away.

“I love you,” Rowle said, slipping his arms around her waist. She was so much smaller than him, her head barely reaching his chest, even when she stretched upward on the tips of her toes. “More than I ever thought I would.”

Hermione smiled slightly, a rosy shade of pink emerging on her cheeks. “You’re a fool, Rowle,” she replied, her voice light as if she were the same little lioness as before.

The pills he gave her kept her content, even if she no longer was the fiercely intelligent girl that he knew. He regularly paid a former classmate, Nott, to make them, as he knew that Nott was talented at potions and charms. The pills were easily crushed into her food and kept her mood from crumbling.

Rowle’s fingers shook every time he crushed the familiar white pills, though he kept himself from adding them to his own food. There wasn't an out for him like there was for the wife that he adored. He forced himself to look in the mirror while he shaved, and he kept his forearm ever displayed; the Dark Mark one that every respected Ministry worker took and was necessary for Riddle’s knights. There was a connection between them, Rowle feeling the mark pulse between his fingers when he touched it.

Hermione had been the one to change his dressings, after he received it, and bathed the crusted blood from it. There had been no malice in her eyes when she traced it with her fingers or pressed her lips against it after it had healed. It took his breath away when she felt his mark, her touch never anything but gentle. She was more than he deserved, the sweetness she poured on him, the same as if he rolled around in thick pools of honey.

He caught her chin, his fingers squeezing it harshly. “Let me take care of you,” Rowle murmured.

He would give her whatever she asked; whether she wanted his tongue to lap at her skin, or his fingers to twist and tease her until her body was thrumming with need. His erection pressed against her, a sign of his acceptance, his excitement -

Hermione had sobbed in his arms, the first time that another Knight had summoned her. She thought that she would repulse him, as if such a thing was possible, the little fool that she was. Rowle had kissed her until her lips were bruised and bloody, and his fingers left marks behind on her neck. There was nothing that she could do that would push him away, and Rowle had offered to come with her.

Hermione had whispered her refusal, as she scraped her teeth above his collarbone. They both left marks on one another as if it was their defiance against the world. She wasn't his pet nor his slave, but his equal, the same as if she were any purebred wife. Rowle would take any mark from her if she wished, his willingness far more than when he had taken the Dark Mark.

He teased her lips with his tongue and murmured her name softly. “Hermione.”

It was a plea, a desperate cry, for her to allow him in -

_please -_

She bit her lip and nodded.

He washed away every touch that had been forced upon her and covered her body with his own. She touched him tentatively, her fingers gripping his forearms. He watched as her chest rose and fell with her breath, and her blush spread down her neck.

_Gorgeous_.

There were times when he made love to her, slipping his cock inside her sopping cunt where cum was from her lovers before. He painted her skin with his seed and claimed every moan and whimper she made, as his own.

She would bounce on his cock without guile as if she truly enjoyed every touch that he gave her. Rowle would tip his head back and watch her through hooded eyes, the sight of her falling apart on his cock prettier than anything he had seen before. Hermione was his, something that nothing would ever change, just as he was hers.

He found they could revel in pretending that every hickey she had was from him, every bruise and mark one that he had imprinted on her. He longed to see her stomach swell with his child, knowing that her heart was filled with love. There was no chance for a family in the world that the Minister was making, and Rowle purchased birth control pills for her in muggle London, knowing the Ministry was beginning to track contraception charms.

Her fingers entwined with his, squeezing his hand as if she wanted to know that she wasn’t alone.

And Rowle ensured that she never was, after the terrible day, when he’d found her in the bathtub. The house-elves knew to watch her without break if Rowle wasn't able to be with her. He worked as little as he could, the family vaults well filled, and he was the sole heir to it. He wondered, sometimes, if he should have emptied it all, and bought them a new life in America where Riddle’s laws had no effect.

America’s democratic policies extended to the wizarding world, where decisions were decided by the committees, without any leader among them. Muggleborns were regarded without hate, though purebloods were feted and adored, the same as they were in England.

Perhaps, his past classmate with the Hufflepuff had been the smartest one of them all.

“Come,” Rowle said, carrying his wife to their bedroom. He set her down on the bed and crawled beside her; feeling the warmth that emanated from her. Their bed was covered in the softest silk, and ad a lacy canopy; one that he closed around them.

He whispered spells beneath his breath, ones that vanished her robes from her, and made her relax beneath him. His wife was desired more than Rowle had ever known, many of his Slytherin peers taking advantage of the law.

A muggle-born couldn't refuse their advances, as if their body wasn’t their own, and neither could their owner on their behalf. She was used by Dolohov, Pucey, Zabini, and others that gathered at the weekly revelries, as well as those that called her to their manors. Rowle frequently gave her pills beforehand or sent her there with his cum dripping from her thighs as if she were his gift, instead of a pet passed between them.

There were times when Rowle took her on his lap and fucked her amidst the orgies; while others watched, Malfoy and Nott among them. They weren’t bold enough to ask him to fuck his wife, though he felt their gazes caress her, and knew the filthy thoughts that ran through their minds and ran straight to their cocks.

It was hatred that ran in his veins, as Rowle slit his wand through the portraits of Riddle that hung in their manor, and he threw it into the fireplace after. It wasn’t the life that he had promised his sweet lioness, it wasn’t a life that he had imagined for them at all. It was more than he could have dreamed of, the world that Riddle had made, and the other purebloods he knew willingly accepted.

Muggleborns were leaving England in droves, though most were caught by the Knights that hunted them, and dragged them back to their owners, or let them shiver in the streets.

At the sight of purebloods crowded around his wife, Rowle swallowed tautly, magic turning in his veins.

He longed to murder them all for seeing his wife -

For knowing her that way -

His magic wrapped around her, as if it were a cloak, and kept her from crawling away. Rowle had never known another like Hermione and knew that he never would. Ever since she had been assigned as his Secret Santa, she had been tied to him, and he to her, in turn. He had sent his mother a blistering hex when she owl'd him choices of others he could marry as if his wife never existed at all.

She was there, beside him, where she belonged.

“I love you,” Rowle croaked, repeating his words from before.

“I know,” she turned her face from him, leaving him terribly cold. She was the sun, his little lioness, and he wanted to bask in the light of her. “I love you too, Rowle, more than I should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Simon and Weestarmeggie, thank you! 🦝🖤


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% sure about this chapter but aaah...I tried my best!
> 
> I know that Rowle and Hermione's relationship received a mix reception - this story was really different than anything else I've written, and it had a bittersweet ending...
> 
> But this chapter makes it a little sweeter. :) I may add a third chapter to this since I actually really like writing Rowle's POV..but we'll see!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope this makes the story a little less angsty (or at least, more redeemable!). I think it can stand on its own, or you can read it as a second chapter.
> 
> Hermione and Rowle (especially Rowle) have a *lot* of issues, and their relationship isn't the healthiest. Maybe they can start again? :) ❤

Rowle never knew his wife, not truly.

He never knew until they fled England, how she hummed to Crookshanks in the morning while giving him food, or how she liked to paint her nails clear. There were silly things that he never knew about her, yet he found himself wanting to know everything about her as if he had a right to.

It was a thought that he never voiced to her, though perhaps, she knew. Rowle would find himself watching her as she drank her tea, noting the elegant curve of her fingers around her teacup until her eyes found his and he looked away.

He studied the gold band around his finger, one with a small inscription on the inset of it. It was nothing like the magnificent house crest that his father had worn, nor the one that had been set aside from him, and rested in the family vaults. It had a black pearl, one that was said to have been worn by Merlin himself, as nearly all pureblood family’s memento, with the same lore behind it.

There were times as a child when Rowle had wanted nothing more than to hold the ring in his hand.

It was the dream that he imagined when he spent his first days at Hogwarts and found that even snakes snapped and hissed at one another. It was the dream that he imagined when he pulled the covers over his head, and whispered in a tone that sounded like his favorite house-elf, that he wouldn't cry. He _wouldn’t_.

Heirs to the house of Rowle never cried.

Nor did Thorfinn, as he imagined the weight of the ring on his finger, and how alive his magic would feel. It would burst and bubble inside his veins, as it allowed him to wear it. He knew that he wouldn't take it off until death came when it would be passed on to his heir.

Or perhaps, young Rowle imagined, he never would pass at all.

The ring would treat him the same as Merlin, helping him live until his back was bent, and his shoulders drooped low. His magic would refuse to let him go; his reputation, his prowess, making him more known than Dumbledore or Lord Malfoy was.

The thought was electric, and Rowle had laughed aloud in his bed, imagining the looks on the others’ faces, when their children looked up to him (the snake who wouldn’t fit in their mouths!). He’d settled into chuckles when another had shouted from their room, for Rowle to shut up, or else they’d make him.

It wasn’t the first time he imagined such a thing, the dream never changing until he had met Hermione.

His dreams hadn’t been filled with her then, no -

Rowle's lips curved upward into a knowing smile, as he felt her press her face against his back, and slip her arms around his waist. There had never been a sweet romance between them, not even when they met in childhood at Hogwarts.

He had always been above her, he knew, in the eyes of their classmates and the world outside Hogwarts. His death would be mourned, whether he was a man of something, or a man of nothing, because of his lineage alone. His death while young would be a tragedy, his death when old a quiet passing.

Hermione’s death would be nothing at all.

And yet, Rowle had coveted her, the same as the birds he used to feed at Hogwarts. It was his second year when he found the friends, he had inside Hogwarts walls, didn't follow him outside to the grounds. Stuffing rolls in his pocket, Rowle found that ducks would happily accept his meager offering, and the Giant Squid would calm after a gentle word or two. (He may have even found that the Giant Squid and the ducks liked it when he sang, though he would never admit to that, not even to himself.)

He had wanted the birds and their company for himself, not even sharing the spot with Dolohov when they became friends. Dolohov was more intense than the others, his solemn eyes missing nothing around him. " _You’re lonely_ ,” Dolohov had told him, and Rowle had said nothing in response.

Even then, Rowle knew, it would do little to lie to him.

He could lie to Hermione, Rowle knew.

He had lied to her the first time that he had her, and she had spread herself nude beneath him. She'd taken his breath away, with her pretty curls and the way that her whiskey-colored eyes were filled with trust. He'd felt naked in front of her until he'd slipped a pill beneath her tongue, and the innocent look on her face slipped away.

He’d wanted it to mean nothing, just as she thought it meant everything to him.

He'd told her that, hadn't he? The words had dripped like honey from his lips when he'd held her against his chest after, and drawn circles across her skin. " _You’re mine_ ,” Rowle had told the girl in his arms. It hadn't been a lie then, no, the relationship between them had never been a lie, only what it had meant to him. To them, before it became his reality. “ _You’ll never be alone again, kitten_.”

And she hadn’t been, as drawn to him as she was.

There was no one in her House that had warned her away from him, nor had anyone told Hermione about Rowle's reputation. He knew that he was the one that girls came to when they wanted to make their boyfriends jealous or lose their virginity before a betrothal ceremony (one that included an iron-clad fidelity charm). They were things that meant nothing to him, Rowle's focus on sex and losing himself, instead of making love.

Yet it hadn’t turned out that way, had it?

No, Rowle admitted. Nothing had gone the way it should have with Hermione.

"Wool gathering again?" Hermione whispered as she leaned upon the tips of her toes, to kiss his cheek.

"Shouldn't that be my line?" Rowle returned, chuckling as he turned to face her. His wife, with her hair long and curled, and a blush streaking across her cheeks. His arms slipped about her waist as he lifted her up, and held her against him as if she truly was his kitten.

She wrapped her legs about his waist and pressed her face against his neck. She never could take the cold wind, often retreating beneath thick covers in their bedroom, while wearing fuzzy, terribly _muggle_ socks. Rowle smirked, knowing that no many how many warming charms he used, she still clung to him like a young kit, often inviting him into bed with her, purely to _snuggle_.

That was something he had never done before Hermione, not with any girl.

Rowle’s smile lessened as he remembered how many firsts he had had with Hermione. There were things that he had done, things that he had forced her to do, that he couldn’t undo.

Hermione tipped her head back and pressed feather-light kisses along his jaw. "Don't," she murmured, her eyes gentle as they met his. They had watched the pills swirl down the drain as they dumped them, the night before they had escaped.

It was a muggle idea that had saved them, as the Order gathered around the Dark Lord and his circle. It had been impossible for even the richest of wizards to travel, as portkeys were destroyed, and Floos across the United Kingdom were closed. Rowle's hands bore scars still after he had smashed every mirror in their quarters, after taking Hermione to their first revel.

He had been sickened at the orgy that had taken place, and how Hermione had been passed amongst them all -

The sight of yellowing bruises across her skin had made him weep, as he felt rage at himself, and the world that he had introduced her to. And for what?

Acceptance? _Friendship_ with ones like Bellatrix and the Malfoys?

Rowle swallowed tautly, feeling bile rise in his throat.

"We're safe here," Hermione said, nipping at his bottom lip. He felt her small body against his, as she nestled closer against him, and his heartbeat faster inside his chest. His life was hers now, as they had purchased a boat in muggle London, and charted a course for America, where the war hadn't yet reached.

Muggleborns were more accepted there, their status considered equal to that of a half-blood, or pureblood. They had no masters nor mistresses but owned themselves, and Rowle knew of other couples that had fled, seeking asylum there.

“Safe,” Rowle repeated, though he knew he had no right to.

It wasn't days after the revel that he had chosen to leave with Hermione. No, it had been months of mounting hatred for muggle-borns, months when the Dark Lord fell deeper into madness, and Hermione was degraded -

Shamed -

Rowle’s teeth sank into the inside of his cheek, and he tasted copper on his tongue.

It was after he had found his wife in the porcelain bath with rivets of crimson streaming from her wrists, that something had broken inside him.

Inside her.

There was little point to living in the world that the Dark Lord was making and that Rowle had forced Hermione into. His time at the Dark Lord's side had never made Rowle think that Hermione was at risk, not when he had his favor -

But it wasn’t enough, nothing was enough, for Voldemort.

Rowle hissed as he felt his mark burn, and stilled as he felt Hermione's fingers trace it. Her touch was a balm to his pain, to his shame, as he wanted to cry at the thought of what she had gone through. If life in America was something that he could offer her, he would - and he was, as the ship sailed closer to America every day.

The worst fight that they’d had was when Rowle proposed not going with her -

His cheeks burned as he remembered how she had slapped him, while tears streamed down her own cheeks, at the thought that he would leave her. “ _You promised_ ,” she cried. “ _You promised you would stay with me, Thor_ \- “

“ _That I would never be alone_!”

He’d gotten on his knees before her, and soaked her nightgown with his shameful tears, as he apologized to her. She loved him still, and he had little idea why. His veins were filled with filth, as he had willingly become a Death Eater, and dragged her down with him. He was worse than she would ever be, a platinum monster with perfectly straight, and white, gnashing teeth. 

Yet, she wanted him still.

He had remained with her, knowing that he would never be with another, besides her. It was a thought that he’d buried at Hogwarts, never admitting aloud to himself. It was when they had become betrothed that he had allowed himself to knowledge it, allowing it to creep beneath his skin.

Mine, it whispered, mine, mine, mine.

And for as long as she desired, he would stay with her.

(That was a lie, his reflection mocked. You won’t ever leave her, will you, Thorfinn Rowle?)

“Have you thought about Oklahoma?” Hermione asked, a teasing lilt to her voice. She knows how to distract and tease him from his dark thoughts, and to focus on the life that awaited them.

It was a joke that Hermione made often, the idea that they would settle in a sleepy town in Oklahoma, one where they would have a farmhouse without a Floo, and a farm with cows, chickens, goats, and a horse or two. It always made Rowle scowl, the idea of playing farmer unappealing to him.

Though, if Hermione seriously wanted to pursue the idea -

“Shush,” Rowle replied.

He took everything from the family vaults, despite the goblin’s grim expressions. They both know that there is nothing for them back home, not for as long as the Dark Lord reigns. Nor do they have a place in the war, as the Order is comprised of those who ignored, and tortured Hermione during her school days -

And Rowle?

He knows that Hermione will be safer in America, with him beside her. He has little intention of aiding the Order, the same as he has abandoned his post beside the Dark Lord. Hermione never stops searching through aged tomes, their room below full of them, for an answer to removing his dark mark.

She hasn’t given up hope.

She won’t, she promised, assuring him that there has to be an answer for removing it. Rowle often saw her with ink stains across her cheeks, and her teeth nibbling at her lip, as she covers reams of parchment with her notes and countless, open tomes around her.

The ship is small, sturdy enough to survive the rough water, yet suitable only for Hermione, her ever displeased familiar, and the few house-elves that adored her from his family home. They would make a new life in America, their nightstands covered in pamphlets and notes, as they planned for the life ahead of them.

One where they would leave the horrors of Voldemort behind them, and do anything that they wanted.

And there, Rowle would give his kitten the life that she deserved; one with a house teetering with books, and wild gardens, ones that were prettier than his family manor had, or the cottage they’d escaped to. Whether it was in Oklahoma, Maine, or New York, he wanted to give her life anew.

She could study at a muggle university, or spend her time writing endless magical treaties, and brewing potions with him. Or inventing charms and curses, Rowle thought. There were things that he knew, things that only purebloods knew, that he would show her; anything, and everything she wanted.

He would - he _could_ , now. 

It was the only thing that he could give her, with the mark on his forearm, and the stains on his hands as he knew that he had done things to her - things that he could never take back - yet still -

They reveled in each other’s presence, frankly, fucking like rabbits still.

They both had devised charms that set the boat on its course, allowing it to steer itself true.

“I love you,” Rowle murmured, brushing his lips against her temple. He loved her without reason, the same as the feelings she had for him were beyond it.

“I love you too,” Hermione replied, rubbing her cheek against his, “no matter what happens. We’re safe, and we’re together, Rowle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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